


Feeling My Way

by yalublyutebya



Series: Guided By A Beating Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Charlie get to know each other better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's still all impishtubist's fault.
> 
> If you were wondering about my headcanon for what Charlie looks like: http://yalublyutebya.tumblr.com/post/93315524823/so-i-googled-hot-research-scientist-for-reasons

Sherlock arrives at the University College London building just before five, a week after the conclusion of Freddie Irvine’s case. He received a text from Charlie the day before, inviting him once more, and he found himself agreeing without hesitation. It’s an excuse to get out of the house, if nothing else, and a week after a successful case - with no other case on the horizon - he needs the distraction.

Sherlock waits in the lobby, watching the passersby and picking out the lecturers from the admin staff, the students from the visitors. It’s a fascinating cross-section of society, and he’s so caught up in his observation he doesn't notice Charlie until he’s almost at Sherlock’s side.

"Sherlock."

"Charlie."

They shake hands and for a moment it feels too formal, but then Charlie draws his hand away, his fingers just skimming Sherlock’s palm, and it’s not formal anymore. Sherlock flushes, and shoves his hands in his pocket.

"Shall we?" Charlie says, turning towards the lifts.

"After you."

They ride to the third floor in silence, and Sherlock recognises that he should probably attempt some sort of small talk, loath though he is to do so.

"Err, how is your sister?" he asks as they step out.

Charlie shoots him an amused look. "Do you actually care, or are you just being polite?"

Sherlock considers lying for all of five seconds. "Being polite."

Charlie laughs and pushes his way into a lab, stopping just inside to retrieve a lab coat from a hook by the door and slipping it on. He picks up another one and holds it out for Sherlock.

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock asks, although he turns and allows Charlie to slide the coat on.

"You want the proper experience, don’t you?" Charlie teases.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and Charlie presses a hand to the small of his back, guiding him through another set of doors and into a small office-cum-laboratory set off to the side of the main lab.

Charlie opens his arms, gesturing to the room. "Well, this is where the magic happens."

It is much like every other lab Sherlock has been to: rows of flasks, a microscope, a centrifuge and other equipment neatly arranged around the room. A notebook - evidently Charlie’s - lays open on the nearest desk, a mess of doodles and observations. 

"We’re testing a new formula at the moment."

"What are the ingredients?" Sherlock asks, leaning over to try to make some sense of the squiggles in Charlie’s notebook. 

"If I told you that, I’d have to kill you," Charlie answers with mock seriousness.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I’m sure I could identify the main components under a microscope."

"Oh, yes?" Charlie asks, sitting down. "I never did get a chance to ask about your qualifications."

He waves at a stool next to his own and Sherlock sits.

"I have a double first from Cambridge, if that's what you mean."

Charlie raises an eyebrow. "What in?"

"Biology and chemistry."

"So you _are_ a proper scientist at heart. How did you end up as a consulting detective?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I found being a scientist incredibly tedious."

Charlie huffs a laugh. "It’s a little less glamorous than doing battle with evil masterminds, I suppose."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You’ve been reading John’s blog."

"It’s a veritable treasure trove of information about the famous Sherlock Holmes. Did you really fake your own death?"

"Yes."

"Amazing," Charlie says with a little shake of his head, watching Sherlock with an increasingly familiar warmth.

The door bursts open, startling them. "Oh, I thought you’d left." 

A smart-looking woman in her mid-twenties looks between them with interest. Her accent carries just the barest hint of her native Dutch.

"Not quite yet. Sherlock, this is my assistant, Jo. Jo, this is-"

"Sherlock Holmes?" she asks a little breathlessly. 

"That’s me," Sherlock confirms with a forced smile.

"Wow. I have a huge amount of respect for your work."

"Thank you."

"I’m trying to teach Sherlock a few things about how real science is done," Charlie says, smiling sidelong at Sherlock.

Jo laughs. "I think he’s got a pretty good idea already." She turns to Sherlock. "Your study on tobacco ash was really interesting."

"Thank you. It’s invaluable to my work."

"I’ll bet."

"Well, Jo, I’m sure it’s about time you were heading off," Charlie says, throwing a quick glance at Sherlock. "That boyfriend of yours will think I’m working you too hard."

Jo blinks, looks between the two of them again, and then exclaims. "Oh! Of course. I’ll be out of your way in two ticks." She snatches up a bag from the only other table in the room. "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"And you."

Jo grins, winks at Charlie, and slips out of the door. Charlie shakes his head.

"Well, I won’t hear the end of this tomorrow. Here, let me show you some samples, and we’ll see how rusty you are."

Charlie draws a microscope closer and carefully transfers a drop of fluid from one of the flasks onto a slide. He clips it under the scope and sits back, waving Sherlock forward.

Sherlock leans closer and presses his eye to the microscope. He is distracted by the brush of his thigh against Charlie’s, by the small distance between them as he moves in close. He can’t remember the last time he was so aware of someone else.

"Well?" Charlie asks, jolting him back to the present. "What do you reckon?"

Sherlock identifies the substance with only a second’s hesitation, and Charlie reaches to prepare another slide, his arm brushing Sherlock’s. 

Several substances later - most of them successful guesses on Sherlock’s part - Charlie sits back.

"You said you don’t eat when you’re on a case?"

"I don’t."

"You’re not on a case now."

"No, I’m not."

"So I might be able to tempt you to dinner?"

"You might."

Charlie laughs softly. "You’re going to be hard work, aren’t you?"

Their gazes meet, and hold, and the moment stretches out. Charlie shifts on his chair and for a brief moment, Sherlock thinks Charlie is going to kiss him. When Charlie instead clears his throat and reaches for another slide, he can’t quite decide if he’s disappointed or not.

*

Sherlock lets himself be persuaded into dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant, where the conversation continues to flow easily.

"So, come on, what’s been your favourite case?" Charlie asks, looking at Sherlock over his wineglass as he takes a sip.

"I couldn’t possibly choose."

Charlie makes to protest but Sherlock carries on. "I enjoy any case that really makes me think. If I don't have the cases..." He trails off, suddenly conscious of revealing too much.

"What happens?" Charlie asks.

Sherlock considers for a moment, before speaking up. "My brain is not suited to peace and quiet. I need the cases. I need the stimulation."

"That must be tiring."

Sherlock shrugs and takes a sip from his own wineglass. "I'm used to it."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Officially, since I was about twenty-five."

"What did you do before that?"

"My brother calls it ’squandering my youth’," he answers, making a face.

"Older brother?"

"Seven years older."

"And a pain in the arse, judging by your face," Charlie comments with a smile. 

"You really have no idea."

"I don't know about that. My sister has her moments."

"Does your sister spy on you and everyone you know?"

Charlie starts with surprise. "No. Your brother does that?"

Sherlock nods. "I'm surprised he hasn't kidnapped you and interrogated you yet."

"Interrogated?" Charlie looks genuinely worried.

"I'm over-exaggerating. But he may accost you at some point."

Charlie studies Sherlock for a long moment, then shakes his head, reaching out for his wineglass. "Nothing with you is ever normal, is it?"

"Normal's overrated."

Charlie smiles warmly. "You're quite mad."

Sherlock straightens, not sure whether to be offended, when Charlie adds: "I like it."

Sherlock blinks, surprised. "You do?"

"Yes." He sets down his wineglass. "I like you, Sherlock." He clears his throat nervously. "I like you a lot. I haven't exactly been subtle here, so just tell me now if I'm barking up the wrong tree..." Charlie trails off, watching Sherlock expectantly. 

"I.... I like you too, Charlie," he gets out awkwardly, and Charlie's whole face lights up.

"Well that’s a start."

"You should know," Sherlock adds, "I don't usually... What I mean is, I'm not very... experienced with this sort of... thing." He cringes at his stammering.

"I got that impression, yeah," Charlie's says quietly. "And I'm not pushing for anything. We'll just... see how things go?"

"Okay."

"Okay." Charlie smiles. 

Sherlock isn't entirely sure what he's just agreed to, but the thought of spending more time with Charlie is a pleasant one.

*

"Hello, my gorgeous girl," Sherlock murmurs, lifting Phoebe above his head and spinning around. She giggles and waves her arms around.

"Sherlock, she’s just had milk," John reprimands from across the room where he’s helping Mary set the table for dinner.

"Oh, it's fine," Mary interjects, "Anyway, he’ll be the one cleaning it up if she pukes on him."

Sherlock lowers Phoebe to the cradle of his arms, where she instantly reaches for his hair, wrapping tiny, sticky fingers in his curls.

"I'll go check on the dinner," Mary says, slipping into the kitchen as John crosses the room, smoothing a hand over Phoebe's hair.

"What've you been up to then? We've hardly seen you all week."

"Nothing much."

"No cases?"

Sherlock frowns. "No. Nothing above a two on the site." He’s less desperate than he would usually be at this stage, and he suspects Charlie might have something to do with that. 

"Dinner's ready!" Mary calls from the kitchen and John takes Phoebe, carrying her over to her highchair. Sherlock follows him, settling into his usual chair.

"Hope you've been keeping yourself out of trouble," John teases. 

"I’m not a teenager."

"Could've fooled me," John says, smiling warmly.

Ignoring him, Sherlock speaks up again. "I got to see a cancerous tumour yesterday. It was fascinating."

John makes a face. "If you say so. How did you get access to a tumour? Molly?"

"Oh no, Charlie showed me."

Mary enters the room then, carrying the plates, carefully balanced across her arms. John hurries to help her.

"Who's Charlie?" John asks as he passes Sherlock his dinner, and Sherlock realises his slip-up.

"Is this the same Charlie I think it is?" Mary asks with a grin.

"Who's Charlie?" John repeats, looking between them in confusion.

"Charlie is someone I'm... seeing," Sherlock says carefully. 

It's been four days since the meal at the restaurant, and he's only seen Charlie once more since then, at the lab again. On the face of things, their relationship hasn't changed, but underneath there are ripples of emotion that Sherlock is still trying to understand. 

John's eyes bulge and he looks at Mary, who just looks thrilled. 

"You’re seeing someone?"

"He’s very cute," Mary says conspiratorially, as she takes her seat. John sits down beside her, still looking dazed.

"Who- what- how- No, I have no idea what I want to ask first," John gets out. "You're seeing someone?"

"Is it really so shocking?" Sherlock asks.

"No," Mary says, just as John answers, " Yes!"

"He’s very nice," Mary adds.

"You've met him?" 

"We popped round for a visit when Charlie was there the other week."

John stares at Mary for a moment longer, and she gives him a meaningful look. He turns back to Sherlock, opening his mouth and closing it again. "Well... Err... Congratulations?"

Mary snorts, then rubs John's shoulder reassuringly. John gives her another wide-eyed look, before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"And it isn't a pretend relationship this time?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No."

"Right. Right. Okay." John gives himself a shake and Mary smiles again.

"Come on, tuck in," Mary encourages, rescuing Sherlock for now. He sends her a grateful look and she winks.

*

"Of course he cheated on you with your sister, look at his teeth!" Sherlock shouts at the television, before huffing out a sigh and throwing himself back on the sofa. It’s been two weeks since the Irvine case and he’s starting to suffer for it. Even deducing the idiots on this ridiculous talk show is too easy; he craves a good puzzle.

The bell rings downstairs but it’s clearly not a client, so he leaves it to Mrs. Hudson to answer, drawing his dressing gown around him as he slumps on the sofa. He should probably get dressed soon - it’s almost midday, even if it is the weekend. 

Footsteps sound on the stairs, Mrs. Hudson leading whoever it is - familiar steps, and yet not - up to the flat.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson calls as she enters the flat, before giving a disapproving cluck when she spots him. "Oh, Sherlock!" 

Sherlock slowly turns his head to take in Mrs. Hudson, and starts when he catches sight of Charlie behind her.

"Charlie!"

"Hiya," Charlie says, taking Sherlock in with a smile. "Thought I'd pop by and say 'hello'."

Mrs. Hudson looks between them and then flies into motion. "I'll put the kettle on, shall I?" She bustles into the kitchen, leaving them alone.

"I should get dressed," Sherlock says, getting to his feet.

"I don't mind." 

They lock eyes, but both turn towards the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson reappears. "I'll leave you to it, shall I, Sherlock?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He waves her off and she leaves, not before giving Charlie a good long once-over. Sherlock and Charlie share a look and both laugh.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, stepping around the table and heading for the kitchen.

"Sure."

Charlie follows him, casting an expert eye over the experiment that's taking over most of the kitchen table. "What are you working on this time?"

"Study of decomposition."

"Still bored then?"

Sherlock sighs, turning to lean against the worktop. "I'm going out of my mind," he growls, fisting a hand in his hair and tugging it. 

"Hey now," Charlie says, stepping close and taking hold of Sherlock's wrist. The first touch creates a static shock, but that is not what stills Sherlock completely, wiping his mind clean. Charlie gently guides Sherlock's hand from his hair, his eyes locked on Sherlock's. It is electrifying. 

"What can I do?" Charlie asks, his thumb swiping against Sherlock's pulse-point. Sherlock's eyelids flutter, and he is shocked at his own response. He shakes his head, a little desperate and a little confused. Charlie smiles and raises his free hand, stopping just short of cupping Sherlock's face.

"Is this okay?" he whispers. 

Sherlock gives a tiny nod, and Charlie brushes his fingers over Sherlock's jaw before settling his hand at the juncture of jaw and neck. Sherlock swallows, the warmth of Charlie's palm against his skin all-consuming. He hasn’t felt like this in at least fifteen years. 

Charlie is watching him closely, searching for something in Sherlock's gaze, when Sherlock gives into impulses he has successfully ignored and repressed for a very long time. He closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Charlie's.

Charlie makes a little noise and his hand twitches against Sherlock's neck, but he doesn't make any move to take over, leaving Sherlock to take the lead. Sherlock brushes their lips together once, twice, remembering and then swiftly dismissing the awkward kisses he shared with Janine. This is nothing like that, and his heart races in his chest.

"Coo-ee, don't mind me, just brought some milk up!" Mrs. Hudson calls, bursting into the kitchen as they jump apart. "Didn't mean to interrupt," she says, not making eye contact as she leaves the milk on the side and disappears once more.

Charlie lets out a huff of laughter, then his gaze returns to Sherlock, warm and affectionate. He reaches out to brush a hand over Sherlock's arm, squeezing it slightly.

"You'd better finish making the tea then," he says with a smile, "After she's gone to all that trouble."

Sherlock laughs softly and forces himself into motion. He can still taste Charlie on his mouth and it's a delightful distraction.

*

A case comes - finally - and it's barely a seven, but he is just desperate enough to take it. He’s with John when he gets the call from Lestrade and John is more than happy to tag along, tapping out a quick text to Mary as they catch a cab across town. He tucks his phone back in his pocket when he’s done, and turns to Sherlock.

"So..." He clears his throat. "How's Charlie?"

He has to make some effort not to roll his eyes. "He's fine."

"Good. Good. Still... seeing each other then?"

Sherlock gives him a piercing look. "Yes."

"Good."

This time Sherlock does roll his eyes, and turns to look out of the window. 

"I'm really happy for you."

Sherlock swivels back towards John, looking at him in surprise. "You are?"

"Of course I am." John shakes his head and scrubs a hand across his face. "Look, I'm sorry if I've reacted a bit... weirdly. I just... It was a bit of shock. But I'm glad you've found someone."

"Thank you," Sherlock says after a long pause.

"I'd love to meet him."

"I'm sure you will soon enough. Oh, look, here we are."

The taxi draws to a stop and they jump out, heading for the house swarming with police officers and forensic consultants. Lestrade meets them at the door and leads them into the kitchen, to the dead woman, and from there it's all a flurry of clues and deductions, his synapses firing and everything falling beautifully into place. He solves the case in twenty minutes and emerges from the house with a triumphant grin.

"Feel better now?" John asks as he hurries to catch up.

"Oh, John, it was perfect!" he crows.

"Yeah, alright," John says in a low voice, "Tone it down a bit. A mother of two's dead, remember."

"Oh but the way she died," Sherlock exclaims, spinning round to face John - and stumbling on something slippery underfoot, his right ankle twisting awkwardly as he falls to the ground.

John smirks down at him as Sherlock sits up and brushes himself down. "Alright?" he asks, holding out a hand.

"Fine," Sherlock says, ignoring John's offer of a hand and pushing himself to his feet. As soon as he puts weight on his ankle, he knows something is wrong and he lets out an involuntary noise of distress. John looks at him sharply even as he reaches out to take hold of Sherlock's shoulder, steadying him.

"You've hurt your ankle, haven't you?"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Sherlock lies, trying - and quickly failing - to put weight on his right ankle again. 

"Alright, stop trying to walk on it," John instructs, instantly switching into doctor mode. "Sit down." He guides Sherlock to the low wall around the garden, and crouches down in front of him, his fingers cold as he palpates the ankle.

"I don't think it's broken, just sprained. We should probably get you checked out at the hospital, though."

"I don't want to go to the hospital." 

John sighs. "Alright, alright, let's get you back to Baker Street and I can have a better look at you."

John helps him into a taxi and then out at the other end, Mrs. Hudson fussing as soon as she opens the door for them. John, thankfully, dismisses her with a request to get some frozen peas, and sets to helping Sherlock get upstairs.

With John's help, Sherlock finally reaches the living room and collapses on the sofa, his ankle throbbing with pain. John perches on the coffee table and draws Sherlock's leg into his lap, pulling off shoe and sock carefully before inspecting the damage.

"You'll live," he teases, "But it's a nasty sprain. You need to keep the weight off it for a few days at least."

Sherlock huffs. Mrs. Hudson appears with the frozen peas and when John presses them to his ankle, the cold is pleasantly jarring. He sinks back into the sofa, tired. 

"I'll bring you a compression bandage over in the morning, alright?" 

Sherlock grunts. 

"You should take some painkillers."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. He's not sure it will help anyway.

"Suit yourself."

John shifts, lifting Sherlock's foot and then setting it down on a cushion he has taken from the armchair. "You need to keep it raised."

Sherlock makes a vague noise of understanding. 

"I don't know if you want to ring Charlie?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "Why would I want to ring him?"

"Because you're hurt. Sometimes it's nice to have someone to look after you."

"It's only a sprained ankle. And anyway, you're here."

John shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No, I..." Sherlock hesitates. He still doesn't know how this sort of thing works. "Do you think Charlie would want me to call him?" he asks.

"He’d probably want to know, yeah."

Sherlock considers, before slipping his phone from his pocket and sending a quick text. Charlie replies almost instantly.

**Are you alright? Want me to come over?**

Sherlock casts a look at John, who is doing a poor impression of being disinterested.

**Okay. S**

*

Confined to the sofa as he is, Sherlock doesn't get to see Charlie and John's first meeting when John goes downstairs to open the door. He also can’t hear anything but a low murmur of voices from his perch on the sofa and it's frustrating, an abominable lack of data. He wonders how John will behave, and finds himself inexplicably nervous.

They climb the stairs, and their voices carry up through the open door. Charlie is asking about Phoebe. 

"Oh yeah, she’s a handful," John says, just as he re-enters the flat, Charlie right behind him. "But then, you know, I used to live with Sherlock so I'm well-prepared."

Sherlock scowls at him even as Charlie moves closer, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. He thinks Charlie might have kissed him in greeting, if not for John. 

"How are you doing?" Charlie asks sympathetically.

"It's just a sprain. I'm fine."

"He just needs to rest it," John says with a stern look at Sherlock.

"I'm sure we can keep you entertained for a few days while you rest up," Charlie says, taking off his jacket and settling on the sofa next to Sherlock, one hand resting on the leg propped up on the table. John's eyes flick to it, but he doesn't say anything.

"Are you on some sort of pain relief?"

"No."

"Shouldn't he really take something?" Charlie asks John, his voice coloured with concern.

"I'm perfectly fine without."

Charlie gives him a long look but doesn't press the issue. "Alright."

"Anyway, I really better be on my way home," John says, retrieving his coat from the stand and pulling it on. "I'll stop by with a bandage tomorrow."

"Thank you."

Charlie gets to his feet, holding out his hand. "It was nice to finally meet you, John."

John shakes his hand. "You too. Take care of him."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock protests half-heartedly.

John gives him a soft smile, then nods and heads for the door. Charlie sits back down beside Sherlock, his hand settling on Sherlock's leg once more.

"Do you want me to get you anything?" 

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, thank you."

Charlie sinks back into the cushions beside him, his body pressed to Sherlock's. It’s surprisingly comforting.

"How did you manage to do this then?" Charlie asks with a gesture towards his ankle.

Sherlock explains, and when Charlie asks about the case, he tells him about that too. It helps distract him from the throbbing in his ankle for a little while, at least.

"Have you had dinner?" 

"Not yet."

"Fancy a takeaway?"

"There are menus in the kitchen," Sherlock says and Charlie goes to fetch them. 

"Any preference?"

Sherlock shakes his head and they finally decide on Chinese, Charlie phoning through the order before rejoining Sherlock on the sofa.

"You alright like that still?" he asks, nodding at Sherlock's leg where it’s propped on top of a cushion on the coffee table.

"Fine."

Charlie's expression softens as his eyes meet Sherlock's, and after a beat, he leans in and kisses Sherlock, a light brush on the lips, before drawing away. 

"I bet you've had much worse injuries than this," Charlie says lightly. He doesn't move away and the closeness is distracting. 

"A few," Sherlock admits. His eyes are drawn to Charlie's lips, and it must be obvious because Charlie smiles and ducks his head to kiss Sherlock again. Sherlock fists a hand in Charlie's shirt, stopping him from moving away again. Charlie's lips are still cool from outside, but they warm up soon enough as he parts them, just slightly, his tongue flicking over Sherlock's lips. Sherlock moans low in his throat, overwhelmed, and his grip on Charlie tightens. 

Charlie draws back for breath. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," he says in a low voice. "You've really done a number on me, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock pulls back far enough to be able to look at him, to take in the slight flutter of his eyelids, the twitch of his lips. Charlie accepts his observation, open and willing. 

"People don't usually like me that much," he says, then wonders where the words have come from.

"They're idiots."

"I'm not very likeable."

"I disagree," Charlie says, skimming a hand over Sherlock's arm. Sherlock studies him, wishing he could understand - but no deduction can get him inside Charlie's head. As to his own head - he can’t work out what it is about Charlie that makes him different from the others. 

The bell rings downstairs and Charlie squeezes his arm. "That'll be the dinner."

He leaves before Sherlock can answer, jogging down the stairs and returning a few moments later with a carrier bag of food. He goes through to the kitchen, and Sherlock watches him numbly, before forcing himself into motion. He hobbles into the kitchen and Charlie turns in surprise, starting towards him.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock steadies himself on the table and Charlie watches him with concern. "Sherlock?"

What can he say to show that Charlie means something to him, that he feels something - something unnameable and slightly disconcerting - everytime Charlie looks at him? As he struggled for the words, his heart thuds in his chest and his ankle aches and his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten in hours.

"I..."

Charlie waits, watching him with a mixture of patience and concern.

"I had a drug problem."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock shifts as best he can on his one good leg. "I prefer not to use painkillers because I have a history with drugs. I used cocaine very regularly for a rather long time, and so... there you go."

Charlie blinks. "Okay. Why are you telling me this now?"

"I... I wanted you to know," Sherlock says awkwardly.

Charlie smiles and moves closer, reaching out for Sherlock. "You really don't do this, do you? Relationships, I mean?"

"I did warn you."

Charlie laughs. "You did. And look, I'm still here."

"I just don't understand why."

Charlie turns serious. "I know." He brushes a hand over Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's eyelids flutter. "And I'll do my best to show you."

Charlie draws him into a kiss and Sherlock drags him close, balancing on the edge of the table. This at least, he understands. He knows he is attractive, has seen the way strangers look at him, and the fact that Charlie is physically attracted to him is evident. If he doesn't understand any more than that, it's enough for now.

Charlie's hand clenches around his hip, and he leans in close as Sherlock cups his hands behind Charlie's head and opens his mouth, sliding his tongue into the crease of Charlie's lips. Charlie lets out a groan and opens his mouth, and Sherlock finally gets a good taste of him, his tongue pressing against Charlie's. It's intoxicating. 

They part, breathless, and Sherlock can barely move for the flow of blood south. The stream of hormones from his transport, neglected for so long, threatens to drown out everything else. 

"We should have dinner, before it gets cold," Charlie gets out, his voice husky. 

"I'm not hungry."

Charlie pulls back to look at him, his eyes dark. Sherlock straightens his chin, holding Charlie's gaze.

"Sherlock... Help me out here?" he says, and for probably the first time in their relationship, Charlie is the confused one. "What are you saying?"

Sherlock takes Charlie's hand, fingers twining together in a sensuous slide. He hops down from the edge of the table and makes for the door, trying not to put too much weight on his ankle. Charlie follows silently as Sherlock hobbles along the corridor to his bedroom and throws the door wide, before pulling Charlie in after him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock, wait," Charlie says as they cross the threshold into Sherlock’s bedroom, "Wait a minute."

Sherlock stops with a frown, balancing on one foot. Charlie wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, steadying him.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asks softly.

"Don’t be obtuse."

"I’m not. But... we don’t need to rush into anything."

Sherlock’s brow crinkles as he takes Charlie in - all the markers of sexual interest are there, so why is he stalling? In Sherlock’s very limited experience, this is an anomaly. 

"You’re attracted to me."

Charlie laughs lightly. "Of course I am."

"But you don’t want to sleep with me."

"You couldn't be more wrong," Charlie says. "Look, come and sit down. I’m supposed to be keeping you off your feet."

Charlie helps him to the bed and they sit, Charlie’s arm looped loosely his back.

"I do want you," Charlie says. "But you said yourself you’re not very experienced."

"I’m not a virgin, you don’t need to treat me like one."

Charlie’s expression softens.

"I’ll admit, I wasn't sure. But it’s not just about that. You don’t need to prove anything to me."

"I’m not," Sherlock says defiantly. He might just be trying to prove something to himself though.

Charlie strokes a line down Sherlock’s arm. "Well, maybe I’m not ready just yet," he says, and he’s clearly giving Sherlock a way out. 

Part of Sherlock wants to push, wants to feel the heady delight of skin on skin. Charlie presses a hand to his back. "Let’s sleep on it, at least."

Sherlock meets his eyes, then nods. "Okay," he agrees quietly.

Charlie smiles and leans in to kiss him, a quick, reassuring brush of lips. When he pulls away, he tucks his head into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, and places an open-mouthed kiss there. "Don’t go thinking this is any reflection on how much I want you. If I had even a fraction less self-control, you’d be naked already."

Sherlock swallows, leaning into the warmth of Charlie’s mouth. 

"You’re not helping," he breathes.

Charlie chuckles and draws away. "Sorry. Shall we go and have dinner now?" 

"I suppose so."

Charlie grins, but then his expression turns serious again. "Thank you for telling me about the drugs. You didn't have to."

"You would have found out sooner or later," Sherlock says with a little shrug.

"Maybe, but thank you anyway. Now come on, let's go get some food."

He loops an arm around Sherlock’s waist and helps him to stand, and then they make their way - with some difficulty - back through to the kitchen. 

*

They eat dinner, mostly in companionable silence, and watch television for a while, before Sherlock concedes defeat to his tiredness.

"I’ll be going to bed now."

"Do you need some help?"

"I... Maybe."

Charlie helps him to the bathroom, where he relieves himself and quickly brushes his teeth. When he opens the door into his bedroom, Charlie is there to help him to the bed.

Charlie stands awkwardly over him. "I’d better be off then."

Sherlock reaches out for him. "Stay."

"Sure?"

Sherlock glares at him.

"Alright. Sorry. Got a spare toothbrush?"

"In the cupboard under the sink."

Charlie ducks into the bathroom and Sherlock shucks his clothes, replacing them with his pyjamas. His ankle is swollen and discoloured, and he has a horrible feeling it’s going to hurt worse tomorrow. He manages to manoeuvre himself under the covers, and then Charlie returns.

Charlie sits down on the free side of the bed and takes off his shoes and socks, before unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off. Sherlock thinks he may have underestimated the allure of bare skin. His fingers itch to reach out and touch.

"Have you got any spare pyjamas?" Charlie asks, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock raises his eyes to Charlie’s guiltily, and Charlie smirks. "See something you like?"

"There are pyjamas in the top drawer," Sherlock croaks out, waving towards his drawers. "Take whatever you want."

Charlie gives him a long look, then crosses the room, rifling through the drawer before he pulls out a pair of pyjama bottoms. He shucks his trousers without any qualms, and pulls the pyjama bottoms on. He heads back to the bed, still topless. Sherlock can’t stop looking at him.

"Do you want me to put a top on?"

Sherlock’s head snaps up. "It’s fine."

Charlie smiles, taking off his glasses and setting them on the bedside table, before climbing in, the warmth of him instantly seeping across the small space between them. He settles on his side, tucking one arm under the pillow. He stretches out his other hand, letting it rest on Sherlock’s arm.

"Alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, a little more fiercely than necessarily, but Charlie just squeezes his arm.

"How long has it been since you shared a bed with someone?" 

Sherlock turns his head to look at Charlie. 

"I’m guessing you don’t mean platonically, in which case, not since university."

Sherlock expects him to press for more information on the last (only) man to be intimate with Sherlock, but instead he asks: "And platonically?" 

"About a year. John and I were forced to share for a case up in Scarborough. He complained all weekend."

"So, you and John..." Charlie trails off and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You’ve never...?"

"John’s my best friend."

"That doesn't actually answer my question."

"I have no feelings for John beyond the platonic, if that’s what you’re trying to ask."

"But you’re close."

"John’s the first real friend I’ve ever had."

Charlie squeezes his arm again. "That’s really quite sad, you know."

Sherlock shrugs. "I told you I wasn't very likeable."

Charlie makes a noise of disagreement, and shifts closer. "I don’t know who convinced you of that, but I’d quite like to hit them."

Sherlock snorts. "It wasn't just one person."

Charlie is looking at him strangely - some emotion Sherlock can’t rightly categorise - and he reaches out to thread his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock leans into the touch and Charlie closes the distance between them, capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Sherlock hums and presses close, his hand smoothing over the bare skin of Charlie’s back. Charlie breaks the kiss, his head pressed to Sherlock’s.

"Maybe sharing your bed wasn't such a good idea," he whispers.

"I can control myself," Sherlock says, smiling, "Can you?"

Charlie gives him a heated look. "I’ll try."

Charlie presses a last kiss to his lips then moves away, settling back down on his pillow.

"G’night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

*

Sherlock wakes to a strange weight over his stomach and finds that it’s Charlie’s arm. He wriggles out from underneath and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, testing his bad ankle and hoping it might be a bit better, but gives a hiss of pain when it threatens to give way.

"Sh’lock? Alright?" Charlie slurs, blinking sleepily.

"Just going to the bathroom."

Charlie hums and closes his eyes once more, and Sherlock hobbles round the bed to the bathroom. He goes to the toilet, and as he’s finishing, he hears the tap-tap of feet in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson’s preparing his morning tea, which she’s been saying she’ll stop doing for months.

He makes his way out into the kitchen, carefully, and Mrs. Hudson jumps. "Oh, Sherlock, it’s you!"

"Expecting someone else?"

"No," she says, but she glances significantly towards his closed bedroom door.

"Mrs. Hudson, you have an appalling poker face."

She throws her hands up in defeat. "I’ll make a second cup, shall I?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock leans against the table, taking some of the weight off his foot, as she makes the tea.

"Does your friend take sugar or milk?"

"Both. And his name’s Charlie."

"Oh yes, I remember."

Mrs. Hudson finishes the teas and brushes her dress down self-consciously. Sherlock takes pity on her. "Why don’t you bring some breakfast up a bit later and I’ll introduce you properly?"

"Of course, dear. Just this once, mind." She pats him on the arm, smiling widely, and heads off back to her own flat. 

Sherlock manages to get the teas through to the bedroom with only a bit of minor scalding and puts them down on the bedside table. Charlie starts and looks up sleepily, smiling when he spots Sherlock.

"What are you doing?"

"Mrs. Hudson has made tea."

"What a woman. Where do I get one?"

Charlie pushes himself up, picking up his glasses and putting them on. He reaches out for the mug and sips from it carefully, making a noise of satisfaction as he does so. Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed next to him and sips from his own tea.

"How’s the ankle?"

Sherlock pulls up the leg of his pyjama bottoms and lifts his foot slightly, revealing the ugly, purple swelling around his ankle. 

"Ouch." Charlie rubs his knuckles against Sherlock's back almost absentmindedly. 

Sherlock presses his fingers to it, then winces. "Yes, ouch."

"You’ll definitely be off your feet for a few days."

Sherlock grimaces. "Sounds unbearable."

"I’m off work today, so I can stay, if you want."

"You don’t have to."

"I know I don’t have to. I want to."

Sherlock gives him a small smile then takes a mouthful of tea. "Mrs. Hudson’s even doing breakfast."

"Special occasion?"

"She wants to meet you."

"I want to meet the woman who plies you with tea and breakfast."

Sherlock smiles again, and they finish their teas in silence.

*

Once they’re dressed and ready, they head out into the living room and Mrs. Hudson appears not long afterwards with two plates of cooked breakfast.

"I had a few things in the cupboard," she says with a little shrug, setting the plates down on the desk.

"Mrs. Hudson, I’d like you to meet Charlie Dawson."

Charlie steps forward and shakes her hand. "Thank you so much for the tea this morning."

"Oh, you’re welcome," she titters. 

Sherlock lowers himself into his chair, arranging his foot carefully. 

"Newspaper come yet, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asks, as Charlie sits at his elbow.

"I’ll check." 

Before she can even reach the stairs, a figure appears, clutching the newspaper. It’s John. He waves the newspaper as he enters the flat, and if he’s surprised to see Charlie still here, he does a very good job of hiding it. He nods a greeting at both of them.

"Brought you that bandage," he says to Sherlock. "How’s the ankle feeling this morning?"

"Awful," Sherlock admits honestly.

"I’m not surprised. Can I take a look?"

Sherlock swivels in his seat and submits to John’s examination. "Have you been keeping off it?"

"Yes," Sherlock says with mock exasperation.

"Good. Let me get this bandage on and it might help."

John unravels the bandage and props Sherlock’s foot in his lap, getting to work.

"How much longer do you think he’ll need to rest?" Charlie asks.

John considers. "To anyone that wasn't Sherlock, I’d say two days." He turns to address Sherlock. "Can you at least stay off it for today?"

"Not going to be a problem," he says gruffly.

John finishes wrapping the bandage and pats him on the ankle. "All done."

He straightens. "Right, time to get off to work. Lestrade said he might pop round later."

"Why?" Sherlock asks suspiciously. "Ah, you told him."

"You never know, he might bring you something to keep you occupied."

Sherlock huffs and turns back to his breakfast.

"It was nice to see you again, Charlie."

"And you."

John bids goodbye and Mrs. Hudson bustles off downstairs, leaving them to finish their breakfasts in peace.

*

They are playing chess - at which Charlie is remarkable good, good enough to provide a challenge - when Lestrade turns up. He huffs and puffs his way into the room - smoking too much again, and oh Sherlock would kill for a cigarette - and stills when he sees Charlie sitting next to Sherlock.

"Mr. Dawson?"

"Inspector Lestrade. Nice to see you again," Charlie says, getting up to shake hands. "Shall I put the tea on?"

He disappears into the kitchen.

"What’ve you got for me?" Sherlock asks, nodding at the files tucked under Lestrade’s arms.

"A couple of cold cases," Lestrade says absently, before lowering his voice and jerking his thumb towards the kitchen. "What’s he doing here? Not something with his sister?"

"No. I hope these cold cases are good."

Lestrade hands them over, but frowns at the kitchen again. "You don’t usually stay in contact with old clients."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow just as Charlie pops his head around the kitchen door. "Milk and sugar, Inspector?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I’m fine, I’ve got to be off. I, Sherlock -"

"He’s not my client, Lestrade, he’s my...boyfriend." He makes a face. He has never been overly fond of the term, but it does the job.

"Your boyfriend?" Lestrade echoes.

"Yes."

He looks to Charlie, who smiles, before slipping back into the kitchen.

"Oh, right then. Well...good on you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and Lestrade looks faintly embarrassed. "Thank you."

"I’ll, err, leave you to it then."

"Goodbye, Lestrade."

Lestrade leaves and Charlie returns, smiling widely as he sits beside Sherlock, placing two teas down on the table by Sherlock’s foot.

"I should have asked, shouldn't I? Before I called you my...boyfriend."

Charlie laughs. "You can call me whatever you want."

He presses a brief kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then turns back to the chessboard. "Come on then, your move."

*

It’s more tiring than he’d expected, being confined to the sofa, and the pain adds a certain amount to his fatigue as well. By mid-afternoon, he’s feeling generally uncomfortable and restless. He shifts around, trying to find a better position.

Charlie looks up from the book he’s reading and frowns before putting the book down.

"Here."

He sets a cushion in his lap and gives it a meaningful pat. Sherlock turns, lying back on the sofa and resting his swollen and aching ankle on the cushion. It’s a vast improvement. 

His eyes slip closed and he falls into a light doze to the sound of Charlie turning the pages in his book. 

He blinks awake some time later, disoriented for a moment until Charlie lays a gentle hand on his leg. Charlie has abandoned his book and it’s only then Sherlock notices that it’s getting dark.

"There’s a lamp," he says, gesturing at the floor lamp just behind Charlie.

"I didn't want to wake you."

Sherlock sits up a little bit, his foot still in Charlie’s lap. "What time is it?"

"Getting on for six."

He’s been asleep for a good few hours, but he feels marginally better for it. He struggles upright and Charlie steadies him.

"Just going to the toilet."

Sherlock hops to the bathroom and back, before spreading out on the sofa again. Charlie has turned the lamp on now and he’s bathed in a soft glow as he reads the book.

"What are you reading?"

He holds it up so Sherlock can see. It’s an old copy of a Dan Brown novel - must have been left behind by John. Sherlock makes a face and Charlie laughs. "It’s not that bad."

"Hmm."

"We can put the telly on, if you like."

"Hmm? No."

"Alright." Charlie smooths a hand over his leg and returns to his book. Sherlock reaches for one of Lestrade’s files and props it in his lap. 

He’s already read the file through twice and is turning all the pieces of evidence over in his mind when Charlie shifts his hand to cup Sherlock’s foot, swiftly derailing his train of thought. The brush of Charlie’s thumb over his sole sends a jolt right through him. Charlie doesn't even seem to notice what he’s doing, absorbed in his book, and he strokes again absently. Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head, the touch shockingly erotic. Charlie continues, oblivious, his thumb applying slight pressure to the arch of Sherlock’s foot and Sherlock lets out a helpless noise.

Charlie looks up, and he must see the way Sherlock’s chest heaves, the pink flush that crawls up his neck and face, the hard line in his trousers that he cannot hide, because his eyes instantly darken.

"Feet?" he gets out.

"Apparently so."

Charlie presses his thumb to the pad of Sherlock’s foot, just holding it there. 

"Do you want me to stop?"

Sherlock shakes his head, unable to speak, and lets out a low moan when Charlie drags a nail down the centre of his sole. The sensation ripples through him, and he hardens impossibly in his trousers. He throws his head back, fighting for control as Charlie kneads the flesh between strong fingers.

"You look stunning," Charlie breathes and Sherlock forces his heavy head upright, meets Charlie’s gaze head-on. Charlie presses his thumb into the fleshy centre again and Sherlock moans.

"Charlie," he all but growls, "Come here."

Charlie wastes no time, moving Sherlock’s leg as quickly and as gently as he can before crawling up his body. Sherlock meets him with a desperate kiss, teeth catching on lips as they run their hands over each other.

Charlie pulls away with a gasp, burying his head against Sherlock’s neck and sucking on the sensitive skin there.

"God, I know I said we should wait but... let me touch you," Charlie pleads and Sherlock nods, holding his gaze as Charlie reaches down to cup him through his trousers. He bucks into the touch, his eyelids fluttering, and Charlie twists his free hand in Sherlock’s hair.

"You’re amazing."

Charlie kisses him again, whilst undoing the buttons on his trousers and insinuating his hand inside. Sherlock thinks he might die at the first touch of skin on skin. He lets out a helpless moan and Charlie laughs lightly, his hand pressed to Sherlock’s mouth.

"Shhh. Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock bites his lip, but when Charlie starts to pump him slowly, he struggles to stay quite.

"Charlie," he groans. He’s not going to last long and he drags Charlie into a hungry kiss as he tips over the edge, the edges of his vision whiting out as he comes.

When he comes back to himself, Charlie is looking down at him warmly, his thumb touching the side of Sherlock’s mouth. 

"You are fucking beautiful," he gets out gruffly.

Sherlock pulls him down into a kiss and reaches for Charlie’s trousers. Charlie exhales loudly through his nose, pulling back to watch as Sherlock undoes his zip with trembling hands, then wraps a hand around him.

Charlie bucks, and his eyes return to Sherlock’s, heavy-lidded and sensuous. Sherlock strokes him as best he can and watches, spellbound, as Charlie falls apart in his hands.

Charlie drops to the sofa beside him, panting as he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

"You are... amazing."

"You said that already," Sherlock reminds him, smiling.

Charlie grins back, before looking down at the mess they’ve made.

"I really hope Mrs. Hudson doesn't pop up anytime soon."

Sherlock giggles, and it turns into a full belly laugh as Charlie joins him, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder in an attempt to stifle the noise. 

Sherlock feels light, and full, and happier than he has in a long time. He presses a kiss to Charlie’s ear and Charlie turns his head until he can kiss him properly, still giggling into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock thinks he could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has given this a chance. I'm sure there will be more, since I'm in love with this pairing.


End file.
